


Dull night (or not)

by percywinchester27



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Dean being a cocky son of a bitch, Doctor!Reader, F/M, Medical Procedures, Sass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:27:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25769659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/percywinchester27/pseuds/percywinchester27
Summary: A supposed dull night while working your ER shift suddenly turns very interesting when a certain wounded green-eyed man is rushed through the doors.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean Winchester/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Dull night (or not)

It was a dull day at the hospital. Thank the lord for that. Dull days were few and far between and you had learned to cherish them when they came along. Especially when you were posted in the emergency ward for a night shift. You loved your job, even if being a resident doctor was hard. 

Tonight though, you wanted nothing more than to kick back and take care of the few patients who were under observation. Couple cases admitted with a mild fever and one kid who had broken his femur. The only patient who was in need of a little more attention was a man showing signs of pneumonia. But nothing too serious.

This would give you enough time to finally sort out all the personal paperwork you had kept postponing.

“Tonight is my night!” You punched the air.

Apparently not. 

In came the ambulance, the sirens blazing. You jumped out of the chair in an instant.

Two EMTs carried the stretcher into the emergency wing, and the RN dashed inside, hurriedly reporting that there was a guy who had been shot in his stomach. He was a Fed, so the local PD was already involved.

“No… no… no,” you muttered. This was the worst time. The other on-call doctor had just left the ward to grab some dinner. He wouldn’t be back for half an hour. You could handle anything… anything but this.

“Prep him for the OT! And get Miranda to start on the paperwork,” you ordered, hurrying to get into the scrubs. You’d have to do this by yourself.

By the time you entered the OT, one of the RNs was already rushing out. “Doctor.“ She looked clearly distressed. “The patient is hostile.”

“Son of a bitch,” you swore, making your way into the Operation Theater.

The RN wasn’t wrong. The man in question wasn’t even reclining over the bed. He was sitting up with his hand pressed to the front of his what had once been a white shirt. It was soaked in crimson blood now. 

“Just get a damn scalpel,” the man demanded to no one in particular. “I can get this thing out by myself.”

Oh, he was _that_ sort.

The two nurses gave each other a meaningful look, probably deciding on who wanted to give him an earful.

“Trisha,” you said, “Call Dr. Owen. Tell him there is a patient with a gunshot wound and ask him to hurry back.” You turned to the other RN. “Melanie, get the instruments ready.”

The man looked up, a smirk on his lips. “Aren’t you a bossy one!” His voice was deep. Deep and full of annoying skepticism. That and he was handsome. Too handsome in fact. This coupled with his tone suddenly made you mad.

“Let me take a look at it,” you said, moving to stand by him. Jesus, that was a lot of blood. 

“Lady, just get me a scalpel, I can deal with this on my own!” he said. This close you could see how green his eyes were. 

“Why did you even come to a hospital then?” You asked, fingers itching to get to the wound.

His lips twitched again. “You local officer dragged me here.” 

You stared. The man obviously had to be in a lot of pain and yet he was playing this off.

You’d had enough of his machismo. “Listen, smart-ass,” You said, grabbing hold of the front of his shirt and ripping it open. “I’m gonna do my job, and you’re going to let me. You might think you’re some sort of a _He-man_ , but this my territory, so you’re gonna suck it up, and lay there without uttering a single word.”

It was his turn to stare, open mouthed but with a twinkle in his eyes. Then slowly, he grinned. “Well, aren’t you a ray of sunshine.”

“I need to be able to look at you idiot!” you hissed. “Or you’ll die.”

He snorted, “Oh don’t feel bad, I’m usually about to die.”

You didn’t bother replying; you were too busy inspecting the wound. By some miracle, the bullet had been lodged superficially. It had to be hurting like a son of bitch, but thankfully no organ had been punctured. So where the hell had all that blood come from? It was definitely not his!

Furtively, you took a peek at the papers in Melanie’s hand. 

Agent Clapton. That was the name he’d given.

You looked up at the man again. Carefully this time. He couldn’t have been more than thirty years of age with dirty blonde hair and dark jade eyes. Eyes that were staring at you with ill-concealed amusement. His discarded jacket was laid out by the side and under your fingers you could feel the cheap material of the shirt.

_Well, shit!_

“Melanie,” you said in a controlled voice, “Please ring up the anesthetic and ask her to not come down. There’s no need. While you’re at it, tell Dr. Owens I got this under control.”

“But Doctor, you don’t take gunshot wounds,” she said, a worried expression crossing her face. “And the anesthesia…”

You smiled tightly. “It’s fine. I’ll deal with this. I think I can manage a local.”

Melanie didn’t look convinced, but she followed the order nevertheless, leaving just the two of you behind.

You grabbed a piece of gauze, and held it to his mouth. “Here, clamp down on this.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that standard procedure?”

“You wouldn’t know standard procedure if it bit you in the ass.” You shoved the piece in his mouth and his eyes narrowed. 

“We need to get this done quickly because you need to get out.”

You seized the bottle of antiseptic and cleaned the wound meticulously, then grabbed a pair of forceps, bracing yourself. Even after doing it all those times, you’d never gotten used to it.

“This is going to hurt,” you warned, then plunged the forcep inside, expertly manuevoring it toward the bullet. It was a task to get it out without pushing it deeper. His whole body strained. The cords of toned muscles stretching out to prominence because of the pain, but to his credit not even a single whimper left his lips.

The bullet dropped on the tray next to the bed and you got to suturing the wound with as steady a hand as you could manage. When it was all done, you bandaged the wound to the best of your abilities. 

Only after what had been the wound was all wrapped up, did you look up. Because if you were honest with yourself, there had been a real chance of getting distracted by this man. The gauze had been long abandoned, and his full lips were pursed in suspicion. 

“Can you walk?” You asked.

He nodded.

“Allright. Is there anyone here who can get you out?”

“My brother,” he said. “He’s probably waiting outside by the car.”

“Then get out now,” you said. “The Sheriff isn’t stupid. Once you get shot, they’ll make up a case and run every background check on you, which will turn up jack squat because both of us know you’re not a Fed. You’re a hunter.”

He wasn’t really shocked. It seemed he had already figured out that you had figured it out.

He got to his feet, stumbling just a bit.

“Hunter’s kid?” he asked.

You nodded, then asked out of curiosity, “What were you doing here?”

He grimaced, feeling his bandages. “Werewolf two towns over. Fuckers carried guns with them. Ran into your sheriff while he was on night patrol.”

Of course he ran into the police while being injured. Hunting followed Murphy’s law to the last dot.

“Then what’s the deal with the bullets?” He questioned conversationally, as if he wasn’t just standing there with a unhealed hole in his side. You could sense his intrigue in his words.

“Fixed my old man too many times, removed too many bullets. The last one got him, and I wasn’t around to remove it.” That was that.

His eyes tightened, just a tiny bit. It was enough to let you see the world of empathy that lay in them. Hunter’s life was hard and more often than not it led people into bitterness and bloodlust. You thought you’d seen some of that in his smirks and swag. But no, he was different. This crap life hadn’t broken his spirit.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he said, utterly sincere.

He had read it off your name tag, but the sound of your name on his lips made your heart stutter. Made you feel things you didn’t want to feel right now.

So you looked away and gestured to him to keep moving. 

“That’s the back door. You think you can manage to find your brother?”

He gave her that annoyingly charming look. “Of course! What do you think I am? Twelve?”

You led him all the way till the threshold.

“Good bye, then!” Your voice sounded slightly rueful even to your own ears.

“Bye!” he replied, then added. “You know any good diners around here?”

“Why?”

“So, I can take you out tomorrow, Y/N,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked, surprised that something this bizzare was actually happening. Half an hour ago he was bleeding all over the stretcher and now he was asking you out?

“You think you can manage that?” you teased

He rolled his eyes. “You’ll be begging for more by the end of it.” he winked. “Tomorrow then. I’ll pick you up after your shift.”

“I get off at five,” you called as he made his way towards the parking, pretty fast for someone who had been injured like he had. 

Then you remembered. “Hey, what’s your name?”

He laughed, turning back one last time. “Dean. It’s Dean Winchester. And we can see tomorrow about that getting off part.”

And you had thought it was going to be a dull night.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do consider leaving a comment or feedback. It would mean a lot to me :)


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